


Blueberry Boy Bait (And Other Delicious Delicacies)

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Baking, Crushes, Fluff, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:23:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started out as Stiles desperately needing to learn how to do it, for his dad, for himself, for their continued and impressive evasion of death. He knew it wouldn't be easy. It would harbor challenges and obstacles and strife. But it had to be done. He had to learn how to cook.</p><p>And that’s how he met Scott.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blueberry Boy Bait (And Other Delicious Delicacies)

It started out as Stiles desperately needing to learn how to do it, for his dad, for himself, for their continued and impressive evasion of death. He knew it wouldn’t be easy. It would harbor challenges and obstacles and strife. But it had to be done. He had to learn how to cook.

And that’s how he met Scott. Scott, who is sweeter than ninety-nine percent of the desserts they prepare, and three times as beautiful. Scott, who doesn’t really know Stiles exists. Scott, whom Stiles knows he shouldn’t stalk, because he is well acquainted with the law. But Scott, whom he is kind of stalking right this very moment, strategically placed so he can stare at him over one of three benches set up for the twelve-student class.

Because it _started out_ as Stiles going to basic cooking classes to learn how to do more than burn water, but has continued on as him attending the more advanced lessons about puddings, pastries and pies. Which, while not strictly what he should be learning about, considering he’s going to torture his father with kale until the sheriff finally snaps and handcuffs him to a radiator, has been both fascinating and delicious. Falicious. Delicinating? It’s been good. 

He’s been told he isn’t completely useless by the beleaguered chef running the night classes, and Boyd certainly isn’t known for sugar-coating anything except strawberries and the tops of desserts. He hasn’t poisoned himself yet. He’s even made two or three edible dishes. But this is all superfluous to requirements. He doesn’t really need to learn how to create a perfect soufflé, or toffee apple crumble, or white chocolate and raspberry muffins. He doesn’t need to have a keen insight into the many different sugars he never knew existed, or how to create his own buttermilk, or knowledge that apple sauce may be awesome but is by no means going to create an as light and melt-in-your-mouth cake as full-fat butter. He should be at home making his dad corn and kale fritters, quinoa burgers with beetroot relish, poached chicken and chickpea salad, and all the other recipes he learned from his first twelve lessons.

Instead, he’s mixing two sticks of butter with one and a quarter cups of granulated sugar and watching as they go all light and fluffy. He’d never realized the importance of creaming before this course. He’d always thought it was unnecessary pomp and pernicketyness, and he’d never really gotten why the birthday cakes he’d attempted to make his dad over the years had sucked and sunk so much. But now he knows. It’s therapeutic, watching the whisk attachments whiz round and round the bowl. 

Across the counter, Scott is frowning down at his own bowl; contemplative rather than concerned. Stiles is a people-watcher, just like his dad. Observation is a highly-honed skill. He’s gotten pretty good at reading Scott, even though they’ve spoken all of five words to each other. His expression now speaks of some kind of indecision; like he’s wondering if he should test the effects of adding a new ingredient that hasn’t been suggested. Scott mastered the first series of lessons and managed to elicit an actual compliment from Boyd. It was in the shape of a closed-lipped smirk, but still, it was something other than blankness, sarcastic eyebrow raises or ‘okay’s disguising ‘fuck you’s. He seems to have an innate understanding for what tastes go well together, for how to achieve what Boyd once referred to as amplitude, a balance and blending of flavor so that none cancels out or overpowers another. So Stiles can’t help his natural curiosity and wouldn’t this be the ideal time to get over his uncharacteristic and weird lack of self-confidence?

“A dollar for your thoughts,” Stiles says, hoping to hell the shakiness he hears in his voice can be explained away by the hand mixer he’s still wielding. He adds some Greek yogurt, milk and vanilla extract to his bowl and keeps mixing. “I’d offer a penny, but I’m well aware of inflation and I’ve always thought minimum wage should be raised.”

Scott’s frown turns quizzical as he looks up at Stiles. “I’m trying to figure out if I could make a healthier version of this recipe by taking out the egg yolks and substituting half the butter for sunflower oil,” he says.

Stiles stops mixing, carefully taking out the attachments and lying them on some baking paper. He starts to fold in some of his premade flour mixture and more milk. “I am down with healthier versions of things. It’d be good to be able to make something like this for my dad and not feel like I’m corrupting him and going back on my vow to keep us both fit.”

“Yeah, I wanna make this for my mom, because blueberries are her favorite, but she’s a nurse and really health-conscious and way too self-sacrificing for her own good.”

Stiles gives an answering murmur, but really he wishes his dad were even a little health-conscious. He is way too self-sacrificing, though not when it comes to pork belly and lashings of buttered roast potatoes.

Scott holds his hand out. There’s a dusting of all purpose flour on his thumb. “I’m Scott, by the way.” 

“Stiles,” Stiles offers, trying his best to remain cool and collected and not at all like he’s freaking the fuck out that he can feel the enticing smoothness of Scott’s skin against his own. “Will you tell me if it’s any good?”

“Your handshake?” Scott asks, confusion creasing his brow again. “It’s very good.”

“Thanks, but I was actually referring to your modified recipe,” Stiles says, hyper-aware that neither of them has let go yet. He probably should. He does. He instantly regrets it. 

“Oh, I… I get distracted when I’m baking,” Scott says, voice small and embarrassed. Stiles hates that tone. He’s never heard it before and he never wants to hear it again. 

“So do I,” Stiles says, glaring pointedly down at the bowls in front of him. “Which is why I have absolutely no idea what the next step is.”

“Toss half the blueberries in a teaspoon of flour and then fold them into your mixture.”

“You should be running your own class,” Stiles comments as he does as Scott instructed. 

He pretends to concentrate on his batter, but really he’s sneaking surreptitious glances at the practiced efficiency of Scott’s hands. He’s well-versed in surreptitiously glancing at Scott. He’s alternated between guilt and lack of shame at lightning speed nineteen times every lesson. The thing is, it’s been a number of years since he’s had a crush on anyone. His very first crush on the incredible Lydia Martin may have ended in his only long-term relationship, but it did end, freshman year of college. Since then he’s had a couple of short-term relationships, a single one-night stand that proved to him he’s not built for one-night stands, and a lot of loneliness. 

Yes, he stares at Scott a probably worrying amount, yes he’s still attending night classes because he wants to be near his warmth and light, no he doesn’t have a wall devoted to hastily cut-out newspaper clippings or meticulously shot surveillance photographs. Stiles has this --- this anticipation of maybe getting to the point of knowing more about Scott, this heady joy at a shared glance, or wonder-of-wonders, a bestowed smile. He has good, rich food and company he can enjoy from afar, and maybe he wants good, rich food and company he can enjoy from right up close, but this has helped him trudge through countless weeks of monotony already.

“I actually do run my own class,” Scott says, pouring his own batter into his prepared baking pan. “Not culinary expertise, though. Kindergarten. It’s simultaneously messier and cleaner than this, easier and more challenging.”

This is so perfect to Stiles, it takes a lot of self-will not to pump his fist in the air. He had a mental list of five professions for Scott. Teaching was number two. Caring for cuddly critters was number one. (Three, four and five were variations upon a theme; fire fighter, paramedic, doctor. He just always saw Scott as someone who’d spend his days devoted to others.)

“More fun and more like a nightmare?”

“Clearly, I am an excellent teacher,” Scott says with a self-deprecating spread of his hands. 

Stiles doesn’t know how to continue the conversation. He’s warier than he would usually be, aware that he can be off-putting, and he doesn’t want to push Scott away, couldn’t bear it. Does he tell him he’s a consulting detective with the Beacon Hills’ police department? That’s been known to make people either see him as a threat or a commodity in the past. But Scott doesn’t seem like the type to react the same as others have in the past.

“Well, that, and also I’m a detective,” he says, a beat too late for it not to seem like it’s floating in air between them, but if Scott notices, it doesn’t show, because he gazes at Stiles again, looking… is that _impressed?_

Stiles artfully adds more blueberries and then sprinkles decorating sugar over the top of his cake before settling it in the middle of his pre-heated oven. He dusts his hands over his chest, grimacing down at the ick and mess. When he looks up, Scott is still watching him, corner of his lips quirking up. 

This feels like a moment. Stiles has always had an appalling reputation when it comes to moments. He dithers. There’s no other word for it. Okay, there are lots of other words for it. He hesitates. Wavers. Vacillates. Shilly-shallies. 

“Do you wanna wash up together? Get a production line going?” Scott asks, cutting into Stiles’ dawdling. 

“Yeah, awesome idea,” Stiles says, brushing his hair back off his face and gathering up his utensils. 

There are four communal sinks at the back of the room. Three are already occupied. Normally, Stiles waits until everyone else has had a turn before he even so much as thinks of sauntering over. If they haven’t been given another project, he prefers to play Candy Crush Saga and sneak in some people-watching time rather than go straight to the chore portion of the evening. Boyd has only once threatened to lock him in and leave him to the High School students in the morning. 

“Dish towel or wash rag?” Scott asks, holding both out ceremonially. 

“Dish towel, thanks. I’m always better at drying than washing. My dad says it’s ‘cause I’m full of hot air. Truthfully it’s because I sorta hate cleaning. Way more of a hands dirty kinda guy.”

“Is that why you always go last?”

Stiles watches as Scott checks that his sleeves are above his forearms, not letting himself think too much about the fact Scott’s noticed him. It’s easier to concentrate on the flex of Scott’s muscles and the veins on the delicate insides of his wrists anyway. He passes over the detergent and organizes the mixing bowls, spoons and whisks so that they’re all easily accessible. Scott squeezes the detergent, starts the faucet. They move in perfect sync with each other; effortless, natural. There’s no accidental elbow jostling, no awkward collisions. 

“I’m totally being courteous by going last. It’s a sacrifice, dude,” Stiles says, voice feeling thick in his throat.

The sink’s finally full, so Scott leans over him to collect the first items. He looks at Stiles as if he has the measure of him, smile still playing over his lips. It sends heat spiralling up Stiles’ spine and pooling at the base of his neck. 

“I’m sure,” Scott says, not cruel, but teasing. 

It’s been a long time since someone’s liked Stiles enough to tease him. Usually he gets vitriol or indifference. Sometimes both. 

He dries the bowl Scott’s handed him, reminding himself to take shallow breaths, to pace himself, to not let panic overtake his senses. He’s blowing this all out of proportion. It’s what he does. He falls for people and then every glance is a declaration of love, every averted eye is burning hatred. It never matters that his rational side is telling him he’s no longer a hormonal teenager and damn well knows better. He overreacts.

“So how come you’re doing this course?” Scott asks, tone light, completely validating Stiles’ mental chiding. 

“I like sweet things,” he replies, congratulating himself on not lying.

“Oh, me too. I like savory things as well, though. And unsavory, actually,” Scott says, knocking his shoulder into Stiles’. “That must be why I like you.” 

Stiles freezes, breath stoppering in his throat. Did that---? Could it really? No, it has to be his imagination. Because that was too simple, and too easy, and this isn’t the way things go for him.

“Hey,” Scott says, brushing a wet hand over Stiles’ arm. “Did I say something wrong? I don’t really think you’re unsavory, I was just trying to be witty.” 

There’s an awkwardness to him that makes Stiles want to reach out, take him by the shoulders, and promise him he could never do anything wrong. He doesn’t want to say what he’s been thinking all evening. That he thinks he made Scott up inside his head. That the bubble’s going to burst soon. That he never gets people and he doesn’t deserve Scott.

“You said everything perfect,” Stiles says with a smile, before biting his lower lip, preventing himself from saying too much. 

Scott stares at his lips for a beat, more. He gazes back up into Stiles’ eyes. “Okay. Good. Because I’ve been trying to find a way to talk to you for months and I’d hate it if I ruined it all with a stupid joke.”

Right. So. It’s entirely possible he’s dreaming, and if this is the case, he’s gonna go all out. 

“I was thinking we should share my blueberry boy bait after we go out to dinner,” he says. “That way you can still give your mom a pristine, untouched dessert, and I can severely restrict my dad’s access to sugary death.”

Scott beams. It’s so bright it makes Stiles’ heart grow three sizes larger in his chest. “That sounds like an awesome plan. I know the exact place we should go.”

Their hands brush as Scott hands him a whisk. Stiles grins down at his dish towel, bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

The next half hour should seem interminable, but it doesn’t, because Scott tells him why he’s doing the course --- because he sets himself something new to learn every year and after last year’s fiasco with becoming a nude model rather than being taught how to oil paint, he figured he might as well tempt fate. Potential explosions and fires scare him marginally less than middle-aged men and women staring at his junk. Stiles asks if it was only middle-aged men and women he objects to and that earns him the most lascivious smile that has ever been directed his way. Stiles is too tongue-tied to admonish Scott for being ageist.

By the time the bell goes, signalling their cakes should be ready, Stiles has launched into his favorite anecdote about his former lacrosse coach. Scott narrows his eyes at him.

“Finstock,” he says, decisively.

“No way,” Stiles laughs. “How is that possible? You said you grew up in Sunnyvale.”

“Away games,” Scott says with a shrug. “I was always on the bench so I was always in the firing line of his wrath.”

“I was on the bench all freshman and sophomore year and yeah, don’t think that he was only like that because you were on the opposing side.”

“It’s so weird that we must have been only yards away from each other, all that time.”

“There’s that fate you don’t mind tempting.”

Boyd interrupts whatever Scott’s response was going to be by wrapping up the lesson Stiles forgot he was involved in. He talks about the importance of texture as well as taste, pointing out that their cakes should be crispy on the top, soft, light and fluffy on the inside. It’s the interplay between the two contrasts that makes this cake beloved America-wide. They pack up and then Scott’s guiding him down the street with an occasional tap.

And it’s definitely a date. They’re seated at a candlelit table, they eat tapas that are not authentic, but are delicious. Scott tells him more stories about his various projects over the years, he tells Scott about some of his funnier cases. They joke and they bicker and they make plans to see a movie the next night. It’s brand new and comfortingly familiar all at once. It’s filled with good, rich food and wonderful company. 

Cutting the cake is a tricky but ultimately successful affair that is highlighted when Stiles leans over and offers some to Scott. Scott accepts the mouthful readily. When Stiles moans over the blueberry confection melting on his tongue, Scott stares with heat in his eyes. 

“Most apt dessert name ever, am I right?” Stiles asks as they stand outside the restaurant, so close to each other their noses are almost touching. 

Scott rubs a thumb over the bow of Stiles’ upper lip. “I don’t know, I haven’t had Sex in a Pan yet.”

“That could be arranged,” Stiles says with a smile. He nuzzles forward, brushing his bottom lip against Scott’s. “I’ll ask Boyd to put it on the menu.”

The first kiss is sweet. Ninety-nine percent sweeter than their blueberry boy bait. Stiles cards his fingers through the fine hairs at the back of Scott’s head, Scott brackets Stiles’ hips. They move in tandem. Stiles urges himself not to rush, but Scott seems to have no such qualms, tongue licking against the seam of Stiles’ lips and then stroking against his with no hesitation. Stiles can’t help but groan again appreciatively. 

The second kiss isn’t sweet at all. Filthy is a better descriptor. Neither of them seems to mind.


End file.
